A friend has offered to accompany me to Lourdes next spring. He’s part of an organization that takes groups of people with disabilities there each year.

I have enough things wrong with me that going there doesn’t seem out of the question. My spine hurts almost all the time, and I have liver cancer, though now in remission. But I am not sure whether I’m really like those who flock to Lourdes year after year. 

I’ve seen pictures and watched films of Lourdes and have been moved by the great faith of the pilgrims who go seeking relief from their burdens. They are usually on crutches or in wheelchairs. They struggle mightily. I have no idea how many are cured. But I’m guessing just to be where the Blessed Virgin Mary once spoke to 14-year-old Bernadette Soubirous, whose feast the Church celebrates each April 16, might be its own reward.

Having read The Song of Bernadette by Franz Werfel, I understand the pull this place exerts on the faithful. Werfel’s book is not for children. It’s a deep look at what it means to have faith when all around you people think you’re a liar and a fool. I don’t think you can read Werfel’s book without falling in love with St. Bernadette, or, at the very least, come away an admirer.

My mother used to say I was always for the underdog, and Bernadette was one of the great underdogs of all time. Everyone was against her — except the Blessed Virgin Mary. The French state thought she was a disrupter and menace to the social order, while the Church thought of her as an embarrassment, given she was part of the poorest of the poor, illiterate and in bad health. Bernadette could have easily recanted her story of the beautiful woman at the grotto and led a peaceful life. She was, however, incapable of denying the truth. 

What child is that strong?

As I think of this offer to go to Lourdes, I’ve been honestly evaluating my health. Over the past 13 years I’ve bounced back and forth from not too bad to terrible. It’s exhausting. Great amounts of pain create issues, physical and mental.

It has recently dawned on me that making plans to meet with others usually ends with me cancelling. I can’t predict from one day to the next how I’ll feel. When I’m in the grips of severe pain, the last thing I want to do is chat. I’m not in a wheelchair, and I can walk a bit, but it’s getting harder to make it around the block. Each year, it gets a bit worse.

A deeply Catholic friend of mine has been making films about those of us who suffer but have not succumbed to legalized euthanasia. Most of it was filmed at my kitchen table in Toronto, but for added cinematic value, I was filmed walking in front of my house for a few steps. When I saw the film, I was shocked. I looked awful; my face was bloated, and I was bent over. Not being able to exercise for 13 years leaves its mark. 

My first thought was to ask for the film to be destroyed. Then I realized my vanity was getting in the way of important testimony that might help others. I talked about how, given the number of things I had to give up, I still found life worthwhile. There were too many blessings in my life to throw it away, so many people I love. Life is indeed precious.

On my desk is a book called The Wonders of Lourdes. It recounts 150 miracles that occurred at the shrine. I bought it years ago after reading The Song of Bernadette. I barely looked at it, until now.

The forward states:

“Bernadette offered herself to the gratuitousness of the gift of God who reached out to her for her own sake, to be sure, but above all for the sake of the world.”

So, to Lourdes? I fear a flight across the Atlantic will leave me so crippled I’d end up in bed for days. Or maybe being where Mary and a great saint conversed would cure all my ills, at least for a bit. And maybe it would just be wonderful to align myself with those who also try to make sense out of suffering. There is strength in numbers.